


Do Not Forsake Me Oh My Darling

by Vituperative_cupcakes



Category: Sleuth (2007)
Genre: Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 10:17:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2689130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vituperative_cupcakes/pseuds/Vituperative_cupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the ending of the movie, Andrew attempts to deal with the fallout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Not Forsake Me Oh My Darling

The doorbell sounded all through the house, echoing like an air-raid siren in the empty space. Andrew did not stir from the bed. His half-hard erection was ebbing away in the night air. The hand with the gun lay outspread on the bed, limp.

The doorbell sounded again, in rapid succession. Beethoven's fifth. Andrew took a shaking breath.

The door flung open. Of course she had a key.

Maggie's trim leather pumps sounded like horse hooves on the tile floor. She made noise wherever she moved, all her bracelets and necklaces and chains and charms clattering against one another like an orchestra of insects. She ascended the stairs, head bobbing into view, face a calm mask.

“Maggie,” Andrew said. It was hard to speak past the ache in his throat. There was so much he wanted to say, and nothing he could say.

“Hello Andrew,” she said, “got into a spot of bother then?”

She sounded so heartlessly upbeat Andrew had to smile.

“Maggie,” he croaked, “it's all gone wrong. Milo–”

_Milo what? Milo broke my heart? Milo played my own game right back at me, and better? Milo had my number from the beginning?_

“I saw,” she said crisply, sidestepping the pieces of glass from the fish tank. It was impossible to read her face. “Oh, Andrew.”

And he couldn't help but love her a bit, then.

Andrew sat up. “I...shot him. In self defense of course.”

“Of course dear.”

“You don't know what he was like. He was a madman.” _He was a genius._ “He called me the most vile names.” _He called me darling._ “He was trying to take your coat.” _He wouldn't take my offer._

“Yes, yes,” Maggie said in a breathy, kittenish voice. “I knew he had a temper, but I didn't expect it to get this bad. Must have been quite a row.”

Andrew felt his lips. “Massive.”

Maggie tapped around the room, taking in details. Andrew followed her with his eyes, not willing to get up from the bed.

“So...”

“So what?”

“What should we do?” Andrew hated how tentative he sounded.

Maggie turned to him and smiled. “We call the police,” she said, “obviously.”

“Oh yes of course,” Andrew said hastily, “we call the police—”

“But we must make sure our stories corroborate,” Maggie soothed. “after all, it would hardly do for us to turn on one another now.”

Andrew, despite himself, took heart. He sat up, sliding his legs off the side of the bed.

“What happened was this,” he said, “I asked to meet with him. Friendly negotiation, like. I explained my views on matrimony, he was...understandably upset.”

“And why is he wearing my coat?” Maggie prompted.

Andrew faltered. “I...he...we discussed division of property. He took it, as a symbolic act.”

“And why isn't he fully dressed?”

Andrew paused a moment, brow puzzled.

“And what are these things here?” Maggie tossed the fat padding and theater getup onto the bed. “Really, Andrew, we have to have it together. Do you really want to be the one taken in by those PC plods you always write about?”

Andrew stared at the clothes.

“I don't know what you two got up to, but it does look a touch suspicious.” Maggie paused, considering the room. “We are going to have to go over the bullet holes, make sure they're all accounted for.”

Andrew was still staring at the clothes.

Maggie caught his gaze and gave a little laugh.

“Tell you what,” she said, “I’ll stash these in the boot of my car. If they ask, I’ll say he wanted to rehearse for a part and wanted his whole kit.”

“Maggie my love,” Andrew said, still staring at the clothes, “you don't seem terribly upset I’ve killed him.”

Maggie gave him a sphinxlike smile. “Be right back.”

Andrew waited for her head to disappear from the stairs before he rose. His body ached, joints cracking. He felt old. He felt tired. He felt robbed, somehow.

Padding through the mess on bare feet, he could see they would have some work to do before the cops came. He took the stairs down, deliberately avoiding looking at the lift cage. There was glass everywhere—the fish tank, the sculpture, the bottle Milo broke. Andrew rested a bit on the wire man sculpture, looking around.

The bullet holes(some of them at least) could be covered with picture frames. The glass could be swept up—unless it would work better for their story to leave it lying. Andrew found that whenever he tried to plan, his mind would wander. It was impossible to focus, everything was a haze. It was odd, he had basically made a career out of planning this moment, and now it was here...what? Was he just going to let the police drag him away?

Maggie came back in, checking her eyeliner in a pocket mirror.

“Now,” she said, closing it with a snap, “Milo was a love, but he was a bit cocky. Unstable. Capable of violence.”

“Oh yes,” Andrew said dully.

“I was afraid this would happen,” Maggie waxed maudlin, “he was just too in love with me to let me go.”

“And me,” Andrew put in, “I loved you too much to let you go. So we argued a bit, right?”

“Perfectly natural.”

“I intimated I didn't think he'd be able to take care of you. And I think I hit a sore spot. He became argumentative, I pulled out a gun to defend myself—”

“He had a gun as well?”

Andrew stopped cold. “Yes,” he said, slightly dazed, “he must have...he had it hidden, tried to pull it on me. I had to defend myself of course.”

“Did he pull it before or after you pulled yours?”

“A-after of course,” Andrew stammered.

“Are you sure?”

“...Yes.”

Maggie said nothing.

“He became–belligerent. Hostile. Threatened to kill me. He wanted to know where the safe was.”

“And then?”

“I shot him.”

“That's all?”

_Milo twirling, fanning her coat out like a skirt. Milo kissing him._

“Yes.”

“No, that can't be all,” Maggie said patiently, “we've got to hammer out the story now, or it'll be suspicious when you start discovering new details.”

“I’m sorry,” Andrew said, a little louder than he meant to, “he told me you never loved me, that you only loved me for my money. Not a jury in the world would convict me.”

Maggie studied him. “Okay,” she said.

Andrew opened his palms to her. “Maggie I...I didn't mean to do it, really.”

“Of course you didn't.”

“He just kept pushing me. You know what he's like.”

“I do, Andrew.”

“And anyway, he didn't need to be so cruel.”

“I’m sure he didn't.”

Andrew stopped. His eyes were drawn inexorably to the body in the elevator shaft.

“Darling,” he asked slowly, “why did you insist he come here?”

Maggie was studying the floor, her long, sweeping lashes hid her eyes.

“Why, what ever could you mean sweetheart?”

“Why would you send him here to me? This...was never going to end well. You must have known that?”

Maggie looked up at him through a thick coating of mascara.

“Weren't you worried about him at all?”

“Andrew,” Maggie began patiently, “Milo was...nice. We had fun. But we were only together for a few months. It's harder to cry over someone you don't have a history with, someone you haven't known that long.”

Andrew felt something loosen in his chest. “Well, that's it then? You're coming back to me?”

Maggie looked surprised and laughed. It was a bright, silvery laugh.

“Oh _sweetie_ ,” she said, “I can't be married to a _murderer_.”

Andrew froze.

Maggie smiled. “I'll be right back.”

As Maggie's footsteps faded to the other end of the house, Andrew silently made his way to the lift. He manually opened the grate. Andrew squatted down, grunting with effort, and touched Milo's head.

“Milo,” he murmured.

Milo lay silent. His face was relaxed, white, and perfect. He could be sleeping.

“Milo, it was a blank. A blank. You can't be dead.”

No answer. Andrew began stroking his hair.

“Did you hear her a second ago? She doesn't love you,” Andrew said urgently, “she was setting you up, mate. Milo? She doesn't love—”

“Take your hand off me.”

Andrew stopped. Milo was perfectly still, it was almost as if he hadn't spoken at all.

“Milo,”he whispered.

“Take your hand off me.”

The lids slowly rolled back, disclosing eyes like clear green glass. Andrew almost laughed with relief.

“She's coming back.”

Andrew took a second to register the statement and glanced behind him. Footsteps quickened in the hallway. When Andrew turned back, Milo's eyes were closed again.

Without warning, Maggie strode into the room, stuffing something into her purse. Andrew was half-standing, crouched over Milo's head, fingertips still gracing the young man's hair. Maggie’s gaze flicked from Andrew to Milo's prone body. She didn't smirk, but she had a smug little look about her that said something had just been confirmed. Andrew straightened, trying to seem nonchalant.

“Find everything alright?” he asked loftily. Maggie took her sweet time answering, appraising Andrew with her gaze.

“I think so,” she said crisply. “anything I might have missed? Anything...” her gaze wandered over Milo's half-dressed form. “...incriminating?”

Andrew wet his lips. “Round the television,” he said, “a knife. Milo had it...while he was in character. Could you get it?”

Maggie stared at him for long seconds. “All right. And when I come back, we've got a long talk ahead of us.”

“Yes,” Andrew said stonily, “of course.”

As she departed, Andrew slid bonelessly to the ground. Something clinked, and he realized his hand still had a gun in it. He checked the chamber. One bullet. Real.

He squeezed the handle. The weight and solidity of the thing was reassuring, it was the most real thing he had to hang onto right now.

One bullet.

One bullet.

Behind him, he could hear Milo shift. A sudden,warm weight as Milo pressed against his back, looping one arm around his waist, the other sliding down Andrew's arm to grip gun hand.

“You see officer,” Milo began in a decent approximation of Andrew's accent, “my wife was very unhappy with the divorce terms. Said she'd have my head or nothing at all. She was raving like a madwoman, got belligerent, sir.”

Andrew cleared his throat. His hands were trembling, but for exactly what, he couldn't say.

“She invited her boyfriend over.” Andrew picked up the thread, “in hopes of having a third party witness. But nothing could calm her. She wanted her terms, or nothing. She wanted...”he stammered into silence.

“ _She_ _wanted_ ,” Milo prompted.

“...she wanted the jewels,” Andrew said, “became livid when I wouldn't turn them over. She–she went to my study...”

“And found the knife.”

“She knew where I kept it...”

“But not the code to the safe.”

“So she tried to threaten it out of me.”

“And you fired warning shots.”

“But she wouldn't stop.”

“So I...”

Milo put his lips very close to Andrew's ear. “So you fired at her.” The hand gripping Andrew's was cool, but not unpleasant. It raised the gun now, pointing it at the empty doorway.

“I fired,” Andrew said calmly. “I didn't want to, but I was afraid for my life.”

“She was violent.”

“She was unreasonable.”

“And certainly very, very dangerous.”

The two men lay, entwined, looking to the empty doorway. Waiting.

 

**Author's Note:**

> lol yes, another one. I blame Ken Branagh's commentary. He pointed out that we never see blood in the closing shots, everything in the last third of the movie is highly subjective as to what's going on. and the best part?  
> it could STILL be that way.  
> Milo could be alive...or just a figment of Andrew's (vivid) imagination. and it works either way.  
> *evil laughter*


End file.
